“Cancelled? Can you put one of the two account holders on the line.”

  “I can’t do that. They’re dead.”

  “Dead! Both of them?”

  “Both.”

  “But, they were talking to me a few minutes ago.”

  “They had an accident. Lead poisoning.”

  “Lead poisoning? I heard shots.”

  “That’s what I’m saying. It’s over. The account is closed.”

  “But the money? What do I do with the balance?”

  He thought for a second and smiled to himself. “You are instructed to donate it to Mother Teresa’s charity in Calcutta. Hold on, it’s Saint Teresa these days.”

  “But Prince Abdullah was a Muslim.”

  “He had a last minute conversion. The guy saw the light.”

  A pause as he worked it out. The American accent, the killing of two clients he knew to be terrorists. Had to be Special Forces. He didn’t want to be next on their list. “Saint Teresa. Calcutta. I will make the arrangements.”

  “Do that.”

  He hung up and found Ryder waiting outside.

  “You okay, John-Wesley?”

  “I’m good.”

  He wasn’t good. He was a man who’d lost everything.

  “There’s something I have to say to you.”

  He looked resigned to his fate. “Yeah, I guess you do.”

  “Next time, you follow orders.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  “So there’ll be a next time?”

  “You think I could fire a man who’d just saved my life?”

  His hard expression fell into a smile. “I kinda hoped you couldn’t.”

  “Just this once, Ryder. Just this once.”

  “Sure.”

  Nolan nodded. “Okay, time to head home.”

  SEAL TEAM BRAVO: BLACK OPS - ISIS BROKEN ARROW II

  By Eric Meyer

  Copyright 2016 by Eric Meyer

  Published by Swordworks Books

  Foreword

  The crowd screeched their hatred in a language that wasn’t German. Commanding Officer Colonel Grant S. Blackman regarded the screaming, shouting mob that besieged his airfield. Ramstein, South Western Germany, the vast USAF Airfield home to large numbers of American and NATO aircraft. It was also home to an unwelcome visitor. A nuclear warhead, recently recovered from the Middle East, and awaiting shipment for its final journey to the U.S. for technical analysis and final destruction; an end to a long and bloody saga. They’d strapped the heavily guarded cargo to a pallet, in readiness for the ground crew to load it on board the aircraft. A C-17 Globemaster waited nearby, fueled and ready to carry the special cargo on the long transatlantic flight to the United States. It was the end of a long saga that began in the mountains of North Western Syria.

  The crowd outside the gates disagreed. Their placards were eloquent.

  ‘Germany nuclear free zone.’

  ‘Keep our skies nuclear free.’

  ‘No missiles inside German airspace.’

  It didn’t ring true. Blackman glanced at Master Sergeant Miguel Gomez. "What do you make of it? If they were that keen on getting the warhead off German soil, surely they'd want it to go by the fastest route. I don’t get it.”

  The Air Force veteran frowned. "There’s something not right here, Colonel. The people in that crowd, I'd say more than ninety percent of them are Muslims. All long beards and spitting hatred, a bit like downtown Kabul on a Saturday night.”

  Blackman smiled. “Bagram was some gig, Miguel. Hard to forget.”

  “Yessir, it was. And this doesn’t look too different. Why are they all Muslims?”

  Colonel Blackman didn’t reply, but waited as an officer approached. Captain Ed Rasmussen, his aide. He looked flustered, and Blackman sighed. Another problem. "What is it, Captain, more trouble? Don’t we have enough out here?”

  "We have a visitor, Sir, a politician demanding entry to the base. A government bigshot, guy says he’s the Federal Minister of the Environment."

  "Any idea what he wants?”

  "No, Sir.” His eyes roved over the baying crowd outside the gates, “But I’m guessing it’s something to do with this.”

  He nodded. "Okay, let him in. The moment his car is inside, get those gates shut fast. You know we’re on high alert because of the nuke sitting on the tarmac. If anyone gets inside our perimeter, the sentries have orders to shoot to kill."

  "Understood, Sir."

  He hurried away, and Blackman watched as armed sentries struggled to open the steel gates to allow the long, black Mercedes limo to pass through. The moment the rear fender was inside, they shouldered the gates closed and fastened the bolts and locks. Blackman waited, wondering what this was all about, and the Mercedes stopped several meters away. The man who climbed out was every inch the politician; expensive, dark suit, stylish, blonde haircut, and polished, handmade shoes. Seventy years ago, he’d have been a senior SS officer, or Nazi big wheel. His expression was as smooth as the suit. If there was a single feature that marked him out from others, it was the eyes, blue, ice cold. Political eyes.

  He nodded a curt greeting. "Colonel, my name is Bundesminister Franz Stollenberg."

  Blackman offered his hand. "Minister, how may I help you?"

  The man waved a hand toward the seething crowd. "You can see these people are angry about what you’re proposing to do. I'm afraid you must cancel your plans to transport the warhead through German airspace."

  He fought back his irritation. "How in the hell do you expect me to get it out of the country, Mister? You want me to conjure it out by magic?”

  The German gave him a wintry smile. "I can clear the cargo for road transport to the port of Hamburg. You may load it onto a ship and convey it by sea. If you attempt to transport it through our airspace, my government will regard it as an act of war."

  Blackman let out his breath with a long hiss, counted down from fifty, forcing himself to stay calm. His first impulse was to toss the pompous idiot back into his car and send him back out.

  The government is responding to Islamic pressure, without question. Which means unimportant factors like safety and security are swept aside. What makes it worse is I have no choice but to agree. This is their country. Even the protesters are German, although they don’t look very Teutonic. Most would look more at home in Baghdad, or Kabul.

  "Very well, Minister. If you insist, I'll cancel the flight and arrange road transport to Hamburg. If there's nothing else, I'm pretty busy right now. As you can see, we have a situation here. A Muslim situation."

  "A German Muslim situation," the Bundesminister corrected him, "Thank you for your cooperation, Colonel. I will make a favorable report to my government when I return to Berlin."

  "Yeah, you do that."

  Shithead.

  They shook hands, and he watched the politician climb into the limo. A uniformed chauffeur held open the door. When the smooth German was inside the smooth German car, he took the driving seat. Blackman signaled for the sentries to open the gates, and the crowd parted respectfully as the black Mercedes drove away, almost as if the passenger was one of them. He was thoughtful.

  What’s behind this nonsense? Whatever’s happening out there, it’s not what it seems. I’ll talk to the base intel officer. See if he can make any sense of it.

  He looked at his two subordinates. "Do you men have any ideas what that was all about?"

  Gomez spat on the floor. "Excuse me, Colonel, but if I were a betting man, I'd say the Muslims got to him. They’re up to something sneaky.”

  He nodded. "I agree, but we don’t have any choice. Master Sergeant, prepare the shipment for road transport. Captain Rasmussen, contact the Federal Government, Office of the Environment Ministry, and arrange the necessary routing licenses."

  The two men went away, and he continued to survey the crowd.

  What are you bastards up to? This stinks like the rotting carcass of a dead goat.

  * * *

  The darkness over Hamburg fled in the face of the powerful overhead arc lights. The rattle of deck cranes hauling cargo aboard accompanied the lap of waves on the oily piers. The time was 03.00, an hour when most honest, law-abiding folks were tucked up safely asleep in their beds. The sweating crew of the cargo vessel tied to the wharf were not in their beds.

  The men labored to fill the hold and deck of the Greek registered MV Demos with an assortment of pallets, crates, and containers. All of it bound for the Eastern Seaboard of the United States of America. The master of the vessel, Captain Costas Ralli, watched from his position high on the bridge. The shipping agent had called him the previous morning, to inform him that most of his regular crew had disappeared without trace. It was assumed they’d deserted, probably signed up for higher wages with another vessel. It was always possible. Fortunately, the agency had sent him replacements in record time. The minibus arrived at the dockside, the men tumbled out, and he had a crew. The new men all appeared to have a working knowledge of the way merchant vessels worked.

  The last crate to swing aboard carried no markings, but the two U.S. Air Force sergeants who accompanied it were watchful. It could only be a weapon of some kind. He hadn't wanted to transport it, but the vessel's owners had insisted, and no doubt the American military was paying well. With the crate safely on the deck, the two sergeants mounted guard, and each carried a loaded M-16 rifle. Two hours later, the engines rumbled beneath the deck, and he gave the order to cast off the lines. The MV Demos sailed slowly out of the harbor and into the North Sea, for the start of the long voyage.

  Once clear of shallow water, Captain Ralli ordered a turn to port, and they began to navigate the choppy waters of the English Channel. By break of dawn, they were halfway to the Atlantic. By the end of the first day, they'd left the land behind. He made last-minute checks to ensure his vessel was secure, and all navigational lights were showing. Then he retreated to his cabin to get a night's sleep. Secure in the knowledge his first officer would look after his ship until he resumed command.

  He awoke to a blinding light shining in his eyes, and the sound of gunfire.

  Gunfire!

  A man was leaning over him, shouting, and it took him a few moments to understand what he wanted.

  "Get up, get up! Order your crew to their stations and prepare to transfer part of your cargo."

  He was still half-asleep, and he gabbled. "What… What?"

  The man stepped into view, and Ralli saw the blue steel barrel of the pistol in his hand. A second before it smashed down on his head.

  "I gave you an order, Captain. Do it, or next time I'll pull the trigger."

  He scrambled out of his bunk, pulled on his pants and coat, and the gunman followed him out to the bridge. A body lay in a pool of blood below the chart table, and he recognized the fleece lined boots his first officer always wore to ward off the cold. He contained his shock and continued to take stock. The helmsman was a new man, an Arab. As were two other men standing either side with assault rifles pointing at his belly. The gunman with the pistol led him to the bridge window and pointed down at the deck. At the crate they'd loaded earlier, the crate with two Air Force noncoms on guard.

  The guards were still present, but they were dead, their bodies lying torn and bloody on the deck. The gunmen pointed to the crate.

  "That piece of cargo, hitch it to a crane and transfer it to my ship."

  "Which ship?"

  “It is two hundred meters to starboard, maneuvering to come alongside. It’ll be close enough for the transfer in a matter of minutes."

  Ralli stared into the darkness and made out the faint shadow of a small coasting vessel. He began to give the necessary orders, and ten minutes later felt the slight bump as the strange vessel touched their hull. His crewmen looked around, wondering what the hell was going on. He could tell them in one word.

  Hijack.

  He picked up the microphone and gave orders over the loudspeakers on the deck. The engine of the crane coughed into life, and they connected steel cables to the metal lifting eyes on the crate. The operator winched it into the air, and they helped guide it over the side of the ship. The crate dropped out of sight and descended to the deck of the smaller vessel. It was done, and he looked at the gunman. "I did what you asked of me, please, do not harm my crew. Let them go. They will do you no harm.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Who are you? Who do you work for?”

  The man’s eyebrows furrowed in puzzlement. “You do not know? My name is Qasim Amir. I work for Allah the merciful. Bless His holy name. He gives orders to our commander, Sheikh Umar al-Aziz. His Chief of Staff is Omar Firooz, who passes them on to me. Which means the work we are doing here is directly ordered by God.”

  “So you’re what, Al Qaeda?” He gulped, “ISIS?”

  Qasim Amir enjoyed the fear on the Captain’s face. “I see no reason you shouldn’t know who commandeered your ship. My organization is Lashkar-e-Taiba, and our alliance includes Al Qaeda and ISIS.”

  “What happens to my ship when you are finished?” He tried and failed to keep the terrified tone out of his voice, “You have what you want. Will you leave us alone?”

  Qasim looked around the deck and glanced at his men, who held the remainder of the crew under their guns. “Yes, we have what we came for. You may continue your journey.”

  “We can?”

  “Of course.” He waved a signal to his men, and as Ralli watched in horror, the rifles fired and began to bark their message of murder. The terrorist leader put a pistol to the Captain’s head. “Your journey to hell is about to begin.”

  He pulled the trigger, and Ralli’s brains spattered over the bridge. Qasim nodded in satisfaction. They were finished. The weapon they’d taken would destroy the infidel coalition in the Middle East forever.

  Chapter One

  Driving across the freezing mountaintop inside the tribal badlands of Northern Pakistan, he tried to think of a single thing that was good about this operation. There was nothing. Save one. It wasn’t snowing. Higher up, the peaks were topped a gleaming white, but in the remote foothills, it was just cold. Damned cold. They’d been following the convoy, a train of five Land Cruisers, ever since it left the departure point at Peshawar.

  Five Toyota SUVs, laden with weapons to resupply the Taliban insurgency. It wasn’t the weapons that worried them so much, but the rest of the consignment. Explosives, C4, bomb-making materials, and equipment, intended to maim and slaughter the long-suffering population of Afghanistan, military and civilian alike.

  Their job was to stop it happening. An ambush inside Pakistan was declared impossible, illegal under International laws. Never mind the SEAL Team 6 raid on Abbottabad on that famous day when they consigned Osama bin Laden to the dustbin of history. The new political buzzword was cooperation. Détente. Diplomatic niceties were everything, never mind how many innocents died by the bomb and the bullet. Therefore, they followed at a distance. Which gave him time to think. Think about the future. Think about the past.

  Like most men in his line of work, life for Lieutenant Kyle Nolan was a dizzy, descending spiral of broken relationships. At first, it hadn’t worried him, until lately. In his early thirties, he was getting too old to consider he could go on forever, firefighting, rushing from one emergency to another, returning to an empty apartment or cold hotel room. Maybe the Spartan bachelor quarters inside a military installation. He’d have given almost anything to come home and find a woman waiting for him. Someone who could share his life, to chat to over meals, and share his bed; he had no one. Almost nothing that didn’t include his career in the U.S. Navy SEALs.

  There should have been someone. He was an average looking guy, with no shortage of girlfriends in the past. Six feet and one inches tall, and he kept himself lean and fit. In his line of work, it was that or die. People said he had the kind of features they called chiseled. He assumed that was good, no girl had yet complained. He remembered one date telling him he reminded her of a young Clint Eastwood. Okay, that was bullshit, but still, he appreciated the thought. His chief assets were his eyes, the color of a clear, deep blue sky. In contrast, he had thick, dark brown hair, a combination that women said they liked.

  All plus points, but who wanted do date a ghost? A man fated to wander the storm tossed oceans of combat, like the Flying Dutchman of legend. Never to return to port, never to return home, a life spent alone, not that he didn’t enjoy his service with the SEALs. He relished the thrills and spills of asymmetric warfare, the adrenaline buzz of action, scars or no scars. He grinned ruefully; he had more than enough scars for several lifetimes, plenty of scars, more than enough. It’s just that he wanted more. Not to be alone. What man wouldn’t want a girl, someone to be there when he got home? Although right then he’d have given plenty to be traveling in a tad more comfort than their current wheels afforded them.

  Their vehicle was a battered, Brit-built Land Rover Defender. The paintwork had long faded, and it was little different to many other Land Rovers that crisscrossed the isolated bandit country. Rugged, go anywhere SUVs, familiar across the world. Unlike the iconic American Humvee, a vehicle that screamed, ‘military.’ Land Rovers were reliable and anonymous, perfect for tailing a hostile convoy at a distance. Except the vehicle assigned to them was fit for nothing more than the scrap heap. It rattled, smoked, coughed, spluttered, and struggled to keep up with the modern, powerful Land Cruisers. There was something else. The heater didn’t work.

  It was cold, bitterly cold inside the sparse, utilitarian metal and plastic interior of the primitive SUV. They were high in the Hindu Kush Mountains, and each of the four men inside the vehicle envied the people they were following. Travelling in the luxury of the Toyota Land Cruisers, they could only imagine the warmth provided by a heater that worked. The soft comfort as they sat back in the luxurious real leather upholstery.